I’m not sure if caution is what she needed to hear tonight.
Still on my feet, I scan the patio warily, searching for Nova, straining to hear her laughter, but there’s no sign of her.
I lower into my chair, my gaze returning to the empty bowl. The golden seams glimmer in the sunlight, just as Lily-Anne’s hair did before.
I hope Rupert is wrong. It’s far simpler to think of his matchmaking attempts as ludicrous and misguided. Yet each time I’m with Lily-Anne, it becomes increasingly hard to deny that—despite my reservations—something might be stirring beneath it all.
Should I let myself want this?
Is itwise?
My more pressing concern is Jack. He has a knack for drawing people in, and the thought of her stepping into his orbit rattles me more than I care to admit.
I hope he is as invested as I am in not repeating the past.
18
Open Mic
Lily-Anne
The café buzzes with anticipation for the open mic, tables and chairs scraping across the floor as staff move them to face the stage. Several musicians are present with instruments and cases, chatting with nervous laughter.
I settle near the front, guitar still in its case. I tell myself I don’t have to play, that I can just watch—but I’m already winding myself up with pressure to try.
This is exactly where I want to be—under soft fairy lights, on a tiny stage, playing for a small, intimate crowd. Perhaps I’ve always known that deep down, but realising it now sends every nerve trembling with the wish to belong up there.
I can’t decide what frightens me more: walking home with the shame of never trying, or the prospect of actually standing up there. My months with the ensemble weren’t nearly so daunting; It’s one thing to share the stage, melting into a large group; it’s another to face it alone, every gaze trained on me.
What I wish, more than anything, is for someone to be here with me. Mum. Ellenor. Someone who believes in me. But the only person I have in England is Brandon—and I can hardly ask him to hold my hand through this.
Willoughby appears near the stage, a fresh T-shirt thrown on over the same ripped jeans from earlier. He gives instructions to someone with a clipboard, then he catches sight of me.
His smile is immediate and easy. “Lily! Glad you could make it. Why don’t you wait by the stage? I’m just finishing a few things. I’ll be over in a minute to help you change that string.”
Someone calls Willoughby’s name, and he moves off, laughing and chatting animatedly.
Daisy comes round with a sign-up sheet. “No pressure. This is just in case you decide to play. Helps us stay organised. Don’t forget your contact details if you want to be spammed about our next event.”
I laugh and jot my details down—name, mobile number, instrument—but leave the last field blank.
Daisy taps the sheet with her pen. “No song choice?”
“I’m still deciding,” I admit.
“Nice! Willoughby and I usually wing it as well.”
“Are the two of you going to perform together?”
“Yeah, maybe—if he buys me a drink. But I’m still doing a solo. I told him if he tries stealing my spotlight, he’s a dead man.” She flashes me a knowing look I can’t quite decipher before breezing off, leaving me wondering what she meant.
As I set my guitar down by the wall, my phone buzzes in my jeans pocket. Ellenor’s name flashes on the screen.
Missed call.
Before I can redial, a text arrives.
Ellenor:Pick up!! Big news!!!
